


Though the Skies are Dark and Grey

by LadyAJ_13



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Episode: s04e02 Canticle, M/M, Post-Canon, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-26 03:48:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20735738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/pseuds/LadyAJ_13
Summary: It's been years when Morse bumps into a familiar face, walking down Oxford high street.





	Though the Skies are Dark and Grey

**Author's Note:**

> This is not what I was planning on writing today, but I re-watched Canticle and it just came out - so have at it, I guess!
> 
> Title from the song 'Make Believe you Love Me' from the start of the episode - I needed a title and I liked the song :) Not sure it fits all that well, but never mind.

“Nick?”

A flash of confusion, then recognition. “Morse?”

“It's been a while.” He holds out a hand, the two of them forming an island amongst all the other Oxford shoppers, and the other man shakes. It's strong, and he looks better than any of them could have hoped for back after everything first played out. “How have you been?”

Nick shrugs. “Well enough. All things considered.”

“Are you-” he motions to the guitar case in his hand.

“Oh, no. Not for profit at least, strictly a hobby these days. I could, if I wanted to, but... rather lost my taste for it.” Morse nods. “How about you – I heard. She got you too.”

“Yes.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Hardly your fault. I should have been more careful. And it was a different drug, too. Or, a concoction really. Terrible at the time, but it... passed quicker.”

“I'm glad.”

“I'm sorry we didn't catch her sooner. Before.”

Nick smiles ruefully. “Perhaps if I'd been more forthcoming you would have done.” Morse shrugs and leans on the metal railings at the side of the pavement. “Say – would you like to get a drink? Only beer, I'm off anything stronger.”

Morse checks his watch. “Perhaps one?”

“Lead the way.”

–

They settle into a corner table at the pub; a place where the barman knows Morse by name and who's gaze slides off Nick. He must not have teenage children. It suits him, going by the little smirk at the lack of fawning.

“Was I wrong about you, constable?”

“Sergeant now.”

“Congratulations. Was I?”

“How do you mean?”

Nick stares into the depths of his glass, tracing patterns in the condensation on the side. “You know about me. Barry. Everyone does, thanks to the court case.”

“I'm sorry-”

“No apologies Morse. But was I wrong about you?”

“No.” Morse takes a long gulp of his beer. “Not entirely.”

“So there's something there to work with, or there's somebody else?”

He can feel himself blushing, because they might be talking in partial riddles but the meaning's clear enough and it feels too direct. “No one else,” he manages. He's not sure, never been forward when it comes to men, more of a watcher, and a thinker, than someone who acts. There was one kiss, once, in college. Hurried and wet in a darkened stairwell after too much wine at a party, and then a door had slammed and that was that, gone forever.

“Good.”

Nick's gaze is like a caress, and he fiddles with a beer mat for a distraction. The other man grins, breaking the tension by looking over his shoulder. “Do you play?” he asks, nodding towards the dartboard.

“Not at all.”

“Well, let me beat you then.”

–

One drink had somehow turned into several, and although neither of them are drunk (the pub's steak and kidney preventing that), Morse feels looser than he has in a long while. It strikes him that Nick is the first non-copper he's talked to, for anything but a case, in a long while.

“I should get going,” he says with real reluctance. “I'm in early tomorrow.”

“Early to bed, early to rise, is it?” Nick asks, but he's already gathering his things. Morse takes the guitar case while he pulls his jacket on and they manoeuvre around tables.

“Something like that.”

The street is quiet after the buzz of the pub, and Morse takes a deep breath of smoke-free air as they fall into step.

“This is the time when you should ask me for my number. If you want it.”

“I could have it?”

Nick laughs. “You could have more than that, but I get the feeling you're not ready yet.” He jams his hands in his pockets, glancing sideways. “I can wait.”

He's not ready, just the thought of anything happening between them catching his breath and making his heart race. He covers it by shifting the guitar case into his left hand; Nick notices, and takes it back. It's ridiculous. He's too old to be acting like a scared teenager. “Can I have your number?”

Nick grins at him, and stops, putting the guitar down. “Sure,” he says, unearthing a pen and uncapping it. He scrawls digits on Morse's hand, fingers soft where they hold him still, and contrasting against the scrape of biro nib. “Call me,” he adds, recapping the pen.

Morse nods.

“Now, its time for all good policemen to be getting to bed. And I should head home.” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder, indicating back the way they've come. Morse blushes again, cursing his fair skin, at the idea that Nick had been sort of walking him home. To be with him longer. The street lights are thankfully placed far enough apart that it shouldn't be too obvious, and he thinks frustratedly that he should have dragged things out, walked with Nick longer. That perhaps if they'd got close enough to his, he would have been brave enough for more.

“I'll call,” he says gruffly, waving his pen-stained hand awkwardly as Nick walks away.

“See that you do!” For a second, Nick's picked out in a pool of lamplight, yellow in his hair and one hand raised high in farewell. Then he's gone, lost to the darkness, but for a string of numbers on Morse's palm.


End file.
